


The Mind of the Hitter Job

by DinerGuy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot is a kick-butt hero, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Short, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/pseuds/DinerGuy
Summary: Don’t think about your team. They got out safely; that’s all that matters. You just need to focus on the fight right now.





	The Mind of the Hitter Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frankie_mcstein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_mcstein/gifts).



> Written for frankie_mcstein who requested Eliot being a total kick butt hero and sacrificing himself to save the team and then they have to look after him. Even if this isn’t what you envisioned, I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> Trying out a new writing style with this one. It's just a snippet of a scene, but I really like how it came out.
> 
> Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

Breathe out.

Ignore the pain.

Another strike; take it in stride. Don’t let them get in your head.

There you go, land a few of your own. One, two, three. Move like lightning. They’ll never see it coming.

Another jab to the side of your head. Shake away the stars. You can’t let a little punch like that take you down.

Okay, maybe not _little_ , because that fist is rather large. And now it’s landing a solid one on your ribs.

Come on, breathe again. It hurts, sure, but you’ve had worse. Give him some of your own.

There you go. Nice roundhouse. Follow that up with a right hook to the jaw.

Nice. But no time to celebrate. Second goon is coming for you.

Stiff arm. Clothesline him. He’s tough, though; that’s not gonna keep him down.

Hit him.

Hit him again.

Harder.

Footsteps rushing you from behind. You don’t even have to look, just lift your right arm and throw your fist up to shoulder height. He never saw that coming; you got him right in the nose.

That’s blood dripping down your arm now, but it's okay, not your blood. Unlike the rapidly growing stain on the lower left side of your shirt.

Stop, don’t think about that. You can’t do anything about it now, and if you hesitate, you’re dead.

Don’t think about your team. They got out safely; that’s all that matters. You just need to focus on the fight right now.

Footsteps from your right. More from your left.

You whirl to take on the owner of the pair approaching the quickest, planning to use him against his buddy, but then another gunshot echoes through the room and something impacts with your left forearm from behind.

It’s just a graze, but it hurts to high Heaven. You growl out a primitive snarl of pain and funnel your anger into the fight. Let the adrenaline cover the screaming nerve endings, because no way are you going down so easily.

You slam a fist into the face of the skinny dirtbag on your right, and as he slumps to the ground, you whirl and charge the gun-wielding goon.

He’s not expecting the confrontation, and you confiscate his weapon in two seconds.

A headbutt and he’s down, unconscious before he hits the concrete.

You drop the weapon, and it lands with a dull sound near your feet.

And then silence falls on the scene, punctuated only by the groaning of one of your foes who is down but not quite out. You must not have hit him quite as hard as you thought.

No matter; he’s not getting up anytime soon. Not with the broken leg you’re positive you gave him.

You sway on your feet now that the confrontation is over, but you can’t give into the darkness. Not yet. There’s no way you’re passing out here.

You stumble to the door, steadying yourself on the wall as you near the exit. Vaguely, you notice the red smear on the plaster, but you can’t stop to care right now. You have to get to your team.

The van is rounding the corner of the building, and you growl to yourself. You’d told them to get far away. What are they still doing here?

And then you really don’t care why they disobeyed your orders, because you’re stumbling again and they’re all piling out of the van. You grunt one-word replies to their anxious inquiries and accept their assistance less out of desire and more out of necessity.

Your legs give out somewhere just before you sit down in the open door of the van, and there’s more questions that you ignore.

Hardison is complaining about emergency first aid and blood on Lucille's floorboards, Nate and Sophie are fussing at him at the same time as they’re helping you get all the way inside the van, and Parker is studying your side curiously.

Then the doors swing shut and you sink back and let yourself fade out. You know that whatever has happened so far, you’re in safe hands now. You can worry about the rest when you wake up.


End file.
